


a stroke till midnight

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief allusion to previous assault, F/M, Light BDSM, Post Dark Necessities AU, light anal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa is promised a treat on New Years, so long as she can make it to midnight.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	a stroke till midnight

**Author's Note:**

> [Busy af last several months! So a million apologies to anyone who’s been expecting to read things from me, but that’s how it goes. 
> 
> Here’s something to start of the new year. I 100% intended to get this up on New Year’s Eve, and then stuff happened. It’s still New Years fic if I get it up sometime in January right lol? Anyways, this is sort of post Dark Necessities AU (vaguely), though I will be doing it from memory and jumping forward because I'm lazy.
> 
> But most importantly! To all of you lovely folks reading this: I hope this new year is fantastic, and far better than this last one!!! :) ]

Sansa, in her near twenty-three years, was described as many things. A devout bookworm, consuming at least a book a week (and only because homework and exams got in the way). A star student, excelling in every and any subject, as though nothing could topple her perfect grades. An ardent follower of the Seven, never forgoing services over the weekends even during school. These, and others, summed Sansa best: the shining example of a Good Girl who did exactly as she was told, and never once asked for anything out of place.

Sansa was also a steadfast liar.

“You made it!” her mother called out over the din of noise from inside. Her family – siblings and huskies alike – their close and distant relatives, friends, neighbors, strangers. Like Firstwinter, everyone and anyone was invited into Winterfell for the Seven’s observation of the New Year. No one would say ‘No’ to an excuse for drinking and revelry. “Come, come!,” Catelyn ushered Sansa inside, dusting off the snow that collected on her shoulders as she crossed the threshold. “I was afraid you’d have to spend the new year in your car!”

“So did we.” Sansa shook off her hat and scarf. She tossed them between hands as she shrugged off her jacket. The racks and bins by the door were crammed-full. “Nearly drove into a tree a few times, I think.”

“Only because  _ you _ were navigating!” Harry cried out, disrobing his own bundle of winterwear. It had been just as cold in the Vale, too. At least he knew what to expect, unlike some of Sansa’s first forays into boyfriends, several of whom she’d never mention to her mother.

“And I’ve told  _ you _ a hundred times, never give me the map.”

Harry turned to her, mock anger wrinkling his face. “You  _ live _ here. How in the seven hells do you manage to get lost?”

Sansa huffed. “In my defense, everything’s white. Including those trees you almost drove us into!”

“Nevermind that,” Catelyn interrupted, a smile on her lips. From their ribing or the fact they were here, safe and sound. “It’s late enough, let’s get you warmed up. Food? Drinks?”

“After dealing with  _ that _ ,” Harry uttered, motioning to Sansa with a tilt of his head, “I’ll need a few beers.”

“I’m going to toss my things in my room!” Sansa called out, letting their faux-argument slide.

She weaved her way towards the stairs whilst her beau and mother headed for the kitchen, exchanging a dozen  _ Hi nice to see you again, it’s been so long! _ with people she passed. No sight of her actual family apart from her mother yet, but the house itself was big enough to get lost in even without crowds and crowds of people. She and her siblings would play hide-and-go-seek, to the chagrin of their housekeepers trying to get their work done.

Sansa finally made it to the stairs, clinging to the railing as though the throng would pull her back for endless pleasantries. There were children ambling on the steps, showing videos and the like to each other. Sansa caught wind of a few things she recognized, but not enough to hold her own. College students were practically adults to kids – one of the fattest lies she’d once believed. If anything, adulthood started  _ after _ she got a job and money. Hopefully.

Her old room was in the center of the children’s wing (not really a wing, but with six kids they dominated the hall). It was still the way she last saw it over the summer, which had been the way she left it the summer she waved and hugged her parents about thirty times before saying her final goodbye for university. The walls were a soft pink, the bedspread wrinkle-free. All of it almost a picturesque model in an article titled  _ How to modernize your teen girl’s room. _ Thankfully Sansa was wise enough to tear down the boyband posters before she left for uni. She planned to pin them up in her dorm, hoping to find a connection between her roommate. Margaery – poli-sci, as girly-girl as they get – made a flippant comment during introductions that had the posters collecting dust in the bottom of Sansa’s drawer since.

Sansa pulled out leftover hangers from her closet. Settling her damp clothes on them, she hung the hangers onto the window’s curtain. It was her favorite feature of her room: a window seat, filled (once) with too many pillows and books. It was a wonder there was ever any room at all for Sansa. She’d strung up a cheap lamp and some beaded glow-in-the-dark stars, neither of which survived the minimization redecorating.

She sat down on it, like she always did, remembering all the adventures she had when she was six, twelve, seventeen. Though her father doted on her, there was hardly any room on her bookshelves to hold all the stories she devoured. Those, too, were cleared out, packed away in the attic somewhere, as though Sansa-aged-eighteen couldn’t exist anywhere else but her memories.

Snow fluttered outside against the darkness. The window was chilly against her forehead. She could barely see the forest in the distance – slightly darker jags of blackness – and way beyond that were the mountains. The lawn was nothing but white sparkled gold beneath the lamps, not even the shallow dips of footsteps. No one was foolish enough to brave the outdoors again, least of all until tomorrow around noon when the hangovers slowly subsided and reality made its unfortunate  _ Welcome back _ call.

“I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”

Sansa shuddered, and not because of the frosted window.

Five years ago, she and Harry met in their first-year studio, surviving the trials of late-nights and banal projects to make it to second year without transferring out to something less chaotic. He was sweet, with tousled brown hair and a dimple that always seemed to be there (because he couldn’t help but smile whenever he was around Sansa). He brought her midnight burritos from the pop-up stand on the corner just off campus, knowing that was the first meal in about eight hours with another eight to go. He always offered to walk her to her dorm first at ungodly hours in the morning. Always there to lend a shoulder to punch (if needed) or to cry on (from stress). He was, in short, the perfect boyfriend.

He was also the perfect lie.

“It’s been a while,” Sansa agreed, sliding off the window bench onto her knees. Palms up, resting on her thighs; back straight, chest puffed out; head forward and eyes down. It was as familiar to her now as the wobbly shelf in her closet or a story nestled between well-worn pages. “Forgive me, Sir, for not greeting you properly when I arrived.”

“Can’t be helped,” Petyr said. He was out of her view, but his presence lingered against her own. “Busier here than during voyeur nights back at the Mockingbird. And I’m sure that boy drives slower than your grandma – I was worried I wouldn’t get to see you at all till next year.”

“That’s only tomorrow, Sir.” Just a handful of hours, really.

“But that’s a day longer you’d have to wait. It’s been some time since you last came, hasn’t it?”

Sansa bit her lip. It has. Ever since  _ everything _ that happened: her friend’s assault, her  _ own _ , the death of her aunt. All on top of the growing fear that Sansa should have gone into something sensible like business or poli-sci – all of it was excuse enough for Sansa to tell her boyfriend she only wanted kisses and hugs and nighttime cuddles. To which he was agreed to, as evidenced by his unwillingness to do more than caress her like some fragile, broken thing.

Harry was far more a prude than even Sansa’s facade.

“Yes, Sir,” she said finally. “You were exceptionally kind letting me come after your wife’s funeral.” Petyr had cornered her in the hallway after the viewing, hanging back until even the mortuary’s workers had dimmed the lights and shut the doors. It was one thing having fucked in Lysa’s house shortly after she died. It was another thing entirely when Petyr hefted her bare ass up on top of her casket, eating her out like it was he who would be shoveled beneath dirt for the rest of eternity, with the taste of her come on his lips. 

That was  _ months _ ago, shortly after school began. What with eyes on Petyr (whispered gossip that it wasn’t  _ actually _ an accident popped up left and right), Sansa hardly saw him, even at the Mockingbird. Which wasn’t to say fifth year wasn’t also keeping her at bay; she couldn’t afford the hours-long drive anymore, and it was, in short, agony.

“Yes,” Petyr said, pulling her back to her room, to the way the carpet dug into her knees. “Nothing like a bit of death to make the adrenaline kick your orgasm into overdrive. As I’m sure you remember.”

Sansa did. Despite all that happened during their first year together (had it really only been that short?), she couldn’t deny the certain...thrill that course through her veins that sunny, windy afternoon. As though Sansa’s personal depravity really had no bounds: she found a line, and Petyr gently (or sometimes not-so-gently) tugged her across it.

Petyr strode to her bed, looking once around the pristine decorations before the mattress sighed heavily under his weight. “Let me see you.”

Sansa forced her head still, kept herself from from snapping towards the hallway and the party below. “Did you close the door, SIr?”

“No. Now undress for me, here, before I change my mind and have you go out to the landing. I’m sure you’ve a couple of perverted uncles and the like who’ve been dying to see you naked since the moment you hit puberty.”

_ Like you _ , Sansa thought. Though to be fair to Petyr, he hadn’t known her when she was young. Would things have been different had Lysa married him sooner? Would Sansa still have called him up on his offer?

Would Sansa be here, now, in her childhood bedroom, prepared to strip down in front of the very man whose hands were far, far unclean?

Sansa said none of that, only, “Yes, Sir.” She stood with the smooth precision learned after so much practice, daring her gaze to go only as high as his waist. He wore soft leather shoes and a pair of charcoal slacks. Petyr was only a fan of two colors besides grey: emerald, as though it could harbor wealth for him (which, obviously, it had); and red, the sort contrasted against her skin that brought out the copper in her hair.

His hands were clasped loosely over his thighs. Emerald pyramids clasped his shirt cuffs closed. He had long, skilled fingers, the sight of which already had Sansa aching. Petyr was still wearing his wedding ring. How strange, a simple band of metal. He never wore it when they were together at first, and once he’d been deemed a widower (cause of death: accident), Sansa never saw him without it. An act to play, to be sure; a role Petyr fit just as surely as he did everything else.

“Would you like to see my breasts first, or my cunt, Sir?”

Petyr let loose a breathy laugh. “Oh, how considerate of you. I’ll let you decide.”

Either way, if someone strode in whilst half-naked, it would be impossible to explain. Sansa worked her hands as fast as she dared, stripping off her sweater, her long underwear, and finally her bra. A chill trickled over her nipples.

“Oh, how I’ve missed them,” Petyr murmured, leaning back with one hand. To get a better view.

Another trill ran through Sansa’s body. She’d forgotten how much a simple compliment could turn her body instantly flushed, as though Petyr truly did own her. She undid her bottoms faster, as though eager to let Petyr see her as much as she was to receive whatever gift unspoken: words and touch and (she prayed) an orgasm. Fifth year studio was tough, and not being able to release her stress had admittedly been difficult. Kissing Harry – rough and quick – could only do so much.

“Do you like what you see, Sir?” she asked when she dropped her underwear on top of the rest of her clothes. She dared, too, to look him in the eyes.

Mouth parted, his gaze was quick over all of her curves, as though the Sansa he imagined whilst he got himself off at night (unfair, when she couldn’t) was a pallid shade compared to the real thing. To be fair, Petyr never once looked at her any other way. “Always, sweetling.”

Sansa twirled, letting him see all of her, hiding her smile until her back was to him. She tried to force it away on the turn back, but once there it was difficult to remove. Like the stain of sin he marked on her soul.

“Seeing that I’ve missed out on most holidays since my wife’s accident, I’ve a gift for you.”

“Do you?” He gifted her plenty over their short student-mentor relationship, most of which were lessons in fucking (or gifts worn during it). Sansa no longer had any of the remaining pairs of lingerie he gave her for her birthday, though there were plenty of saucy things hiding in the back of her drawer. Gifts, unfortunately, were few during the investigation. It wasn’t as though Petyr would give the police any reason to look at him as a suspect (or Sansa); husbands were usually the go-to killer, after all. 

“I do. Bend over.”

Sansa turned, prepared to give him a  _ wonderful _ view.

“Stop. Face me, and bend down. I’m sure you remember how.”

She did, but Sansa couldn’t help but glance at the door. The  _ open _ door, partly-closed with sounds of nearly a hundred people floating up from below. Gods, anyone could simply walk past and see far more of Sansa than she liked. 

A thrum of excitement pulsed between her legs, as though her traitorous body aligned with Petyr the minute his voice startled her.

She spread her legs a bit further than shoulder-width, leaning down to clutch her ankles. She stuck her ass back to center her weight. A draft toyed along her wet lower lips, and Sansa forced herself to stare at the carpet, finding patterns in the whorls.

“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten your lesson.” Petyr rose, walking around her once, twice. She saw a scuff on the side of one shoe – if he hadn’t noticed it by now, he’ll be pissed later. He stopped in front of her, standing close enough that, if he asked, Sansa could lick the leather clean.

Fingers alighted on her spine, dancing up and down the bone. “Your skin is far too pristine these days.”

“Will you remedy that, Sir?”

“Hmm,” he drawled out. His hands moved down towards her neck, along her skull, undoing her hair from the loose bun she tossed it in. Auburn filled her vision as Petyr let it cascade down her face onto the floor. “Perhaps during the countdown. Instead of waiting for that damned ball to fall, we’ll give the people something better to count. My hand, or my belt. Or maybe I’ll give those lechers each a turn, before showing them how best to spank your ass.”

Sansa curled her toes. “I only want your hand hurting me, Sir.”

“Possessive, aren’t we?” Petyr massaged her head with slow scratches. Were it not for the concentration needed not to topple over, Sansa would have closed her eyes and fallen asleep. She felt her eyelids drooping, just a bit.

He tugged her hair and head up. Sansa startled, moving her head to follow to keep her hair from ripping out. Petyr was knelt before her, head tilted. He said nothing for a minute, just slowly, painfully tugging her hair higher and higher until Sansa thought something would snap.

He let go, and Sansa did topple against him. She righted herself as quick as possible.

“Don’t forget, sweetling,” Petyr finally said, rising and stepping out of her view. “If I call up some of those dirty bastards, and tell them to have their way with you with you bent over like you are... One, they would gladly do it, and two, I’ll make sure you say  _ Thank you _ to each of them.” His hands were on her ass now, neither gentle nor rough, just there. Just claiming himself as the owner: of her skin, her emotions, her soul.

“So, about that gift.” Petyr said it with such flippancy Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if those last few sentences were another depraved bit of her mind giving lust to her fears. “I think you’ll rather enjoy it, sweetling.”

There was a rustle of clothes, the sound of palms running against each other for warmth, and a quiet  _ click _ .

Petyr slid a fingertip inside her, and Sansa – thank the gods! – felt on the verge of crying in relief. Finally, finally!

For a moment, Sansa thought Petyr would be kind. It’d been  _ months _ after all, and it was just as excruciating for him not to touch her and have her. Sansa’s hips bucked on their own, eager for more than he allowed. Eager to sink down on his finger to the knuckle, consequences be damned.

And the immediate moment after that, Sansa remembered she was bent over, naked, in her bedroom, with a throng of guests below, and a sadistic man pressing himself against her back. And no, that lovely pleasure of his finger was as gone as soon as Sansa’s cunt began to wake up with the memories of it giving her pleasure.

Something else filled her up, as thick as a thumb and not nearly as long. Solid and slightly warm.

And it was thrumming; a constant, mechanical tune.

Sansa tilted her head back, mouth open in a silent prayer of  _ Oh, gods _ . She couldn’t stop the sway of her hips, the need to pull the toy further into her cunt as though this was the first and last time she’d ever been touched. She’d gone days and weeks without coming before, but this, now – Sansa had no thoughts left. Nothing mattered or existed other than the buildup between her legs.

Petyr grabbed her wrist, carefully righting Sansa to stand (the world, for a moment, seemed so out of place: it shouldn’t exist, and it shouldn’t been all right-side-up). 

“Y-yes?” Sansa managed, still not fully there. If she could sneak in an orgasm now, before his rules came into play, then  _ technically _ she didn’t break any. Sansa dared to roll her hips in small, infinitesimal circles.  _ Please, gods, please _ . She had no other thoughts.

Not until she watched Petyr’s smile turned wicked. Not the wicked sort that said  _ You’re going to hate how much you enjoy this, Sansa _ , but the sort that preluded actual malicious intent. Petyr ran his tongue over the upturned corner of his mouth. “Did I give you permission to enjoy yourself?”

“I– you–" Sansa grit her teeth. It snapped: the boundless bubble of euphoria found from the toy inside her. It was harder to ignore that damned thrum when she actively tried to ignore it, tried to force her body to still. “No, Sir, you didn’t.”

“That’s what I thought.” His left hand trailed up from her mound to her stomach to her breast, flicking her taut nipple. “Make it through the night with this in, all without coming, and I’ll let you come as many times as you want once midnight strikes.”

Sansa dug her toes harder against the carpet. It was nearing nine already. Three hours... Could she honestly manage that long? Perhaps if this was a lesson, one of many, bookended on one side with whippings and another on blowjobs. But none of Harry’s touches ever compared to the single heartbeat where Petyr’s finger entered her, let alone now.

Honestly, she couldn’t say she’d make it an  _ hour _ , let alone three.

Sansa looked at him: the gentle crow’s lines around his eyes, the threads of silver in his hair. Anything to focus on but the constant pulsing, the boisterous demands of her cunt. “And if...if I don’t make it, Sir?”

He leaned in, nipping her left ear, biting down on it hard enough that the pain was just as sweet. “Oh, sweetling. You don’t want to find out.”

* * *

“Are you feeling alright, dear?”

Sansa’s vision snapped into clarity, sketching sharp lines around faces and bodies where once everyone merged together. “I– yes, sorry. Just a long drive from the Vale. Bit tired.”

“The Vale?”

Sansa glanced around for Harry. He was her boyfriend, yes, but he wasn’t the sort to cling to her (especially considering she was the epitome of Good. Besides, it was mostly family and friends at this party, who else would she sneak off for late-night rendezvous?

Sometimes, Sansa pitied his goodness).

“Yes. My boyfriend’s family lives there. We stopped off on our way up to say hello, have some lunch. The storm blew in on our way up the Neck.”

Her great-aunt Helena (or was it Agathe?) nodded, sipping on her cocktail. “Ah. Is he a keeper?”

Sansa gave a modest shrug. “Perhaps. He’s as sweet as Prince Charming, and just as good-looking.”

Great-aunt Helena/Agathe smiled, one that turned the wrinkles lining her face into an abstract portrait of her life. “Oh, how wonderful!”

“Yes,” Sansa said, trying as best she could to match the lady’s enthusiasm. Once, Sansa thrilled at the thought of her Prince. Sometimes brown-haired, sometimes fair. Always sweet and kind and a gentleman. Look at her now. “I… Excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Of course, of course. Bring your Prince Charming round when you get back!”

“Sure,” Sansa said, not knowing where Harry was or caring. 

She splashed cold water on her face several times, wishing she could strip and jump in the shower and just stay there until midnight. Would that be considered cheating? Sansa knew she definitely could not take that blasted thing out. And no matter how tempting the shower looked, she knew she couldn’t. It was just like not touching herself whilst he was away. Petyr wouldn’t  _ technically _ know, but Sansa’s guilt would lay over her skin, like a mask only he could read.

Sansa didn’t even want to  _ imagine _ the punishment for disobeying him on top of failing.

She wove through the room towards the kitchen, dying for something to nibble on to keep herself occupied. Conversations were out. Sansa could barely pay attention, and she had to speak slow enough in case she shifted and the vibrator brushed  _ just right _ enough to slip a moan out. She stared at the champagne glasses with envy as she lined up crackers on a little napkin.

She didn’t dare look at the clock, but she couldn’t  _ not _ look at it either. Like a moth to a flame, or a woman desperately trying not to come for hours with a vibrator stuck inside her.

But she did look, and hated that she did. 11:00, on the dot.

_ One more gods-damned hour _ .

The storm raged outside. Here on the lowest level of Winterfell, Sansa couldn’t see it, but years of growing up, she could feel it in her bones. The estate was built halfway in the ground, to conserve energy and draw in the natural warmth of the hot spring below. They couldn’t dig any further without compromising the integrity of the foundation or the water table below.

_ Yes, think about literally anything else _ . Sansa stared at the patterned tiles of the backsplash, rearranging them in her head into offset checkers and houndstooth and spirals. 

She thought about her internship last summer. How it was equal parts drafting up plans from hand-sketches, and dealing with engineers complaining about this or that for projects she hardly knew. It was far from glamorous (as internships were), and with a surprising declination, Sansa would not be going back there full time next year, thank you very much. She hoped that decision wouldn’t bite her in the ass. 

(She missed the sting of it: Petyr’s fingers gripping her ass as he pounded into her, or the marks of his fingernails or teeth into her supple flesh– 

_ Nope! None of that! Think about boring things. Boring things _ !)

She counted how many oranges were in the basket tucked away on the counter. Then how many cups were strewn throughout the room, sorting them by half-drunk and empty. Then she worked to refill the trays of aperitifs, even though at this point people only cared about drinks. 

No matter how boring she delved, Sansa couldn’t keep Petyr’s threat from lingering. It was there two hours ago, and it was still there now. Threading the high enthusiasm of the party with lingering dread. For every man Sansa walked past (college-aged through well into the golf years), she couldn’t help but think he was one of the men who’d willingly (and gladly) hurt her or fuck her should Petyr ask for volunteers. 

He wouldn’t.

He would.

She went back and forth on that whilst she neatly arranged a new line of crackers. Petyr was appalled at her treatment underneath  _ that asshole _ , and surely he wouldn’t subject her to that. Right?

It was, unfortunately, not a question she could assuredly answer.

Sansa looked towards the far side of the floor, wondering if her great-aunt whats-her-name forgot about her or not. She thought she spied Harry, but it might have been any number of brown-haired boys.

She definitely did spy Petyr’s gaze, though. It caught hers from halfway across the room. He was in a circle conversation with men Sansa didn’t recognize, and dread started to fill her belly. Were _they_ the threat? Was he telling them, right now, about _my_ _supple young niece with dreams of being ravished by a group of men_ , and how she was well-versed in arts far from vanilla?

Sansa clutched the counter so tightly she worried her fingers would break.

Petyr replied to someone with a nod, then looked back at her.  _ One _ , he held up with his finger. Sansa glanced at the clock again. 11:21. Forty more minutes! So short, and yet a lifetime. As though Sansa couldn’t help but count each agonizing second as it wore down towards midnight.

Petyr quickly held up two fingers. Peace? Okay? I’ll-let-you-come-twice?

Perhaps he wasn’t motioning to her at all.

Until the not-quite-background-noise thrum in her cunt escalated.

Sansa doubled over the counter, losing her footing and nearly ramming her teeth into the edge.  _ Oh gods oh gods _ – 

“Are you alright!?” someone Sansa never seen before asked, placing a hand on her back. She rubbed it in gentle circles, as though Sansa were throwing up in the toilet. 

“I…” Sansa bit down on her lower lip.  _ Oh gods, fuck. I’m literally, actually going to die before midnight _ . “Sorry, just... _ fuck _ ...cramps.”

“Oh, fuck, sorry. You need something? Motrin? Tampon? Bigass glass of alcohol?”

Sansa desperately wanted to say  _ Yes _ to the last, desperate to numb her cunt to this maddening thrum. But Petyr didn’t allow Sansa more than a glass of wine during their time together (to keep Sansa’s wits about her, and to make sure she felt every ache and pain). Tonight’s glass was reserved for the champagne at midnight. That was, of course, if she made it till then.

She snuck a glance at the clock again. 11:23.

How many gods-damned settings did this thing have? Because, while excruciating, if Sansa just stood/crouched here for the rest of the night, she might survive.

Might.

“Here.”

Sansa turned her face slightly. The girl had a pill and a glass of white wine in her hands, offering them to her. “If your cramps are as bad as mine, you’ll need some of this to get through it.”

_ Fuck it. _ “Thank you so much.” Sansa’s hands shook slightly as she sipped a huge gulp (nearly half the glass), throwing back the pill and half-hoping it would knock her out right now.

“No problem. Want me to help you to the bathroom or something?”

Sansa closed her eyes. Was it the pain making her woozy? Likely. “My...room…” she managed.

The girl didn’t seem bothered at all, gently pulling Sansa up and away from the counter. They wove through the throng of people, slow going upstairs (each step made the vibrator’s presence known, and any amount of jostling at this point was more torture than pleasure). It was two flights up to the living quarters, and Sansa never once hated stairs more than she did right now. 

“That one,” she nudged to her door when they finally eclipsed the landing. Had Petyr pushed the dial up to three between here and the kitchen? Sansa honestly couldn’t tell; her whole body was numb at this point. That was one hell of a painkiller.

Her door was closed. Sansa leaned against it, suddenly not caring if she made it to her bed or knocked out right here in the hallway. “Thanks,” she muttered, waving her new friend away.

“Uh, I don’t think you wanna go in there.”

“I’m fine.” Sansa smiled, or tried to.

After a few attempts, she managed the handle, the door flying forward under her weight. It slammed against the wall, and someone in her room startled. 

The world was both blurry and sideways. Strange. But more importantly, it looked like she was destined to fall asleep right here in the threshold.

At least the carpet was soft.

* * *

“Sansa? Are you awake?”

She was. Or she was dead. It was hard to say.

Memories came back to her in spurts and starts. Was it possible to die from cunt over-stimulation? She supposed it wasn’t the worst way to go – her aunt, afterall, needed posthumous surgery. 

She turned over, nuzzling her head deeper into the pillow. It was soft, and smelled freshly washed. Someone had draped a blanket over her. Or maybe it was a sheaf of clouds, and this definitely was the afterlife.

“Sansa?”

“Hm?” she managed, wanting nothing more than to sleep. Her head hurt like the devil, second only to her cunt which now was thankfully empty. She still felt phantom vibrations, no matter how tight she pressed her thighs together.

Sleep dragged her down, down into peaceful emptiness. Until reality kicked her brain back into life.

“Petyr!” she whisper-yelled, tossing around and pulling the blanket with her, covering all but her head. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there. “You– you’re not– why are you in my room?”

The moonlight was faint, but she still caught his silhouette tilt. “Why were you here in the first place? I hadn’t given you permission to leave the party, or to take out the vibrator.” 

She imagined him holding it up between them, only because the strong scent of arousal hit her.

“I…” Sansa gulped, her tongue and lips dry. “I passed out, I think. It was...too much. I’m so sorry, I thought I could handle it. I did! For a bit, but I…” her voice cracked.

Petyr leaned forward and kissed her forehead, so softly. His arms pulled her into him, and Sansa forgot what it was to be held like this. Harry embraced her at night, yes, but this, with Petyr...she didn’t know how to explain it. It was different. It was  _ better _ . “You did handle it, sweetling. I wouldn’t have done it to you if I thought you couldn’t. Though, it seems you’ve forgotten one of the most important lessons I taught you.”

Sansa felt her body freeze. “I…?”

“You think you can handle everything without admitting you can’t. I thought I taught you better than to grin and bear it.”

Sansa felt her responses bubble up the surface:  _ But I can do it!; But I didn’t want to disappoint you!; But I was afraid what you would do if I couldn’t! _ . She pushed them away with a simple, “You’re right.”

Petyr’s fingers stroked a long line from the top of her head, down to the base of her spine. “I lost sight of you once I jacked the setting up. I thought you looked a bit  _ too _ comfortable.” He laughed through his nose, and Sansa couldn’t help but dig her fingernails into his chest.  _ Comfortable, my ass _ . “I turned around for a second, and then you were gone. I had hoped you would come over and let me know you had reached your limit, but after looking around for you I couldn’t find you. I thought… Perhaps I had gone too far, and too soon.”

“It…” Sansa pulled back, just enough to look at his darkened face. “It was awful, Sir, I won’t lie. But I’ve gone through worse, and at your own hands. And need I remind you, Sir, that I wouldn’t be here had I not  _ wanted _ all this in the first place?”

She felt his muscles relax beneath her hands. He was possessive, and demanding, yes – but he also cared. This was a twisted sort of love between them, if  _ love _ could be used to describe it. Which was something more than could be said about most people. “How is your cunt, sweetling?”

Sansa paused, feeling the press of a vibrator that was no longer there. “I can’t feel a fucking thing, Sir.”

Petyr laughed, catching himself before he alerted the house. “Well, let’s see if that’s true.”

He flipped Sansa over onto her back, running his mouth down her body with a speed that was at odds with his kind words (he was a man, after all, who craved this as much as Sansa did all those months. Sansa listened for any sounds outside her room, wondering how late in the morning it was. How long had Petyr lay beside her, waiting?). His usually lavish attention to her breasts was nothing more than a nip. 

Petyr’s mouth warmed her inner thighs, and he was not discreet about inhaling the scent of her sore pussy. He placed three kisses on each leg with growing bite. “How about that, sweetling? Can you feel that?”

“A little.”

His mouth moved closer, nipping on the join of her leg. “That?”

“Better.”

Petyr licked first the skin around her opening, then traced his teeth along the same path. “Now?”

“Almost, Sir.”

“There’s your manners.” Petyr licked a line down her slit, running his tongue back up to tease at her clit. Thankfully the vibrator wasn’t against her nub; Sansa actually would have died about two minutes in. She couldn’t imagine three hours of constant torture.

He devoured her, not content with letting a bit of plastic outdo his tongue. Petyr was adept with it: witty remarks, bald-faced lies, and exceptional orgasms. It wasn’t long before the ghosting pain turned into sweet pleasure, and finally into the first of many releases, short and sweet and one after the other. As she neared her next, Petyr pulled his mouth away and replaced his tongue with his fingers. Those, too, were just as deft.

To measure tongue against hands was impossible, however.

Sansa’s head lolled back against the pillows. Her body was coated in a sheen of sweat, and there was no doubt about the scent in the air; she’d have to remember to open the windows early enough to clear it out.

She’d also have to remember to clear out an in-mourning uncle before anyone saw him sneaking out of her bedroom in the middle of the night.

Which was – as Petyr’s cock finally found its home against her cunt, running gently against her folds – a problem for later.

Petyr pushed himself in slowly, the fill of him far sweeter than any toy. Sansa’s gasp was sharp against the sudden stillness of the room, transforming into a contented sigh as his hips met hers. “Remember, sweetling,” he whispered as he began to move within her. Even after so long, he knew exactly how to pull sultry moans and sighs from her lips. “You’re the one that needs to keep quiet.”

“Remember, Sir,” Sansa bit back, “you’re the one who definitely didn’t push his wife down a mountain in order to fuck her lithe niece.”

Petyr pulled himself out completely, teasing her opening with his head. Slow, languid strokes, kissing her lower lips without diving in. “Careful, Sansa.”

She pushed down against his cock, knowing that it felt too good for him, too, to fight back. Sansa hated the darkness. Whilst she felt every touch more acutely, she missed the sight of his face: the spark in his eyes as he taunted her, the devilish smirk, the strain as he held back his own release. “Or else  _ what _ , Sir?”

Petyr fumbled for her breasts in the dark, scratching circles around the nubs. His mouth was there, warm and wet against one nipple, pulling it sharply up. Sansa slammed her hands over her mouth, muffling her cries. Her hips stopped rolling, too, as though she needed to conserve every ounce of energy to keep from waking up her family.

He knew  _ that _ too, the bastard. His mouth found her other nipple, gently rolling it around and around his tongue. She waited for the bite and pull, the sharp sting just milliseconds ahead of pleasure.

Petyr pinched the other nipple instead.

“Fuck,” Sansa hissed, clenching her eyes shut.

“What was that, sweetling?” he asked into her breast.

She didn’t dare reply – he was bound to tease her halfway through, turning words into wails. But if she  _ didn’t _ respond, he’d only do worse. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Hm, that’s what I thought you said.”

Peytr pulled back entirely, turning Sansa over onto her stomach. “On your knees.”

She did as she was told, hugging a pillow beneath her chest for better leverage.

His fingers dipped into her cunt, perpetually wet under his touch. Her hips started moving of their own accord, too. He could take her like this, or in any way possible. It didn’t matter – what position, or how – so much as it was Petyr who was fucking her.

It was a fact Sansa came to realize not long ago.

“Imagine, Sansa,” he began, tracing his wet fingers around her opening. He dipped in one last time, thoroughly soaked, before bridging the short gap from cunt to anus. “Here, in your childhood home, on your bed, surrounded by friends and family... Here, in the middle of the night, being completely and thoroughly debased by your uncle, who’s already had you in ways most people only dream of… Imagine what would happen if someone came in whilst I was fucking your ass right now.”

He punctuated it by dipping the tip of his finger into her.

Sansa bit the pillow. It was a pain she’d forgotten about, and yet Petyr was gentle with her. 

He dipped a second finger into her cunt, and did the same, pushing in just a fraction further. Sansa remembered not to fight it, not to push him out. It was far less painful this time, knowing.

A third finger, then a fourth. 

Then his tongue. His fingers dug into her soft flesh, bound to leave crescent marks come morning. Sansa pushed her hips back against his mouth. He licked her own come from her ass. 

“It’s a pity I can’t go farther,” he said, trailing his teeth down her skin. Sansa hoped it would leave trails she could trace, too. “We’ll have to retrain you for anal. But next year… Next year, I think I’ll have to gag you as I take you in both your holes. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sansa sighed into the pillow.

“What was that, sweetling?”

She turned, her neck hurting from the angle. “I said,  _ Please, Sir _ . Please fuck me so hard in my cunt and my ass that I can’t move or walk.”

Petyr bit her, hard enough it  _ definitely _ would leave a mark. It was as good he could get without outright spanking her – as much as both of them wanted it, neither was willing to let the whole house know just yet how depraved they were.

“You can turn any fucking man into an absolute mess, Sansa.” He licked over the wound, placing a similar bit just below it in the fold above her thigh. Sansa would feel it whenever she sat down, and the idea made her happier than she should be.

He fucked her properly before curling up with her head against his chest. They couldn’t sleep (not because they were excited; rather, they didn’t risk getting caught. Sansa knew she would be found innocent. But Petyr...she didn’t want to think what would happen to him.)

Dawn was starting to approach. Petyr would need to sneak out soon, before the lightweights started mass-producing coffee for the whole house. Sansa hoped there were a few candles leftover in her room, stuck in a drawer somewhere. Any scent would do at this point. 

The room grew slightly pink, in that pre-morning light that made it feel like everything was just a dream, and what did life mean when the stars and the moon were so old and ancient?

But maybe that was the euphoria of orgasms waxing philosophical.

“What would you have done?”

Petyr hummed a  _ Hm? _ into her shoulder.

“If I didn’t make it, with the vibrator.”

Petyr didn’t move at first (was he sleeping?), and then he pulled back just enough that their noses were touching. “Well, you collapsed in your room, but you technically didn’t come. So I gave you as many orgasms as I could.”

“Right.” She supposed he didn’t say she  _ couldn’t _ take some painkillers and pass out. “But if I  _ had _ come before midnight…?”

He was sleepy and sheepish and looked almost like a child; until, there, that grin turned far from boyish. “Well, Sansa, I think it’s better for everyone that you didn’t, hm?”

At that point, Sansa didn’t want to learn how much a devil her uncle  _ was _ , if given the chance.


End file.
